The Mummy Bloggers

by Holly Wainwright

  ‘You leave…’ He stopped. Looked up at Leisel again. His eyes seemed almost pleading. He wanted her to put him out of his misery.

  ‘I leave… ?’ Leisel looked back. Eye contact, for almost seconds. ‘Okay. I leave at five-thirty. Zac, you know I have to leave. I have three kids. I have to see them sometimes.’ ‘Oh, I know, Leisel, but you can see how that’s not really my—’ ‘Problem. Not really your problem, I know.’ Change tack, Leisel, she told herself. Think of the mortgage. ‘Well, Zac, look. I always make a point of keeping one eye on emails and any changing status of production from home. What if I agree to always log back on at a certain time every night to check everything’s off and running with the printers? I mean, I wasn’t aware there was a problem, but if there’s a problem, I want to fix it.’

  Zac looked relieved. He wanted to give her a reprieve, she could tell. He didn’t want to be the guy who fired The Mum. ‘Well, that would be great. Let’s say 8 p.m.? Just always check back in at 8 p.m.?’

  ‘Sure, Zac. Eight p.m.’ As if any of these office kids was still here at 8 p.m.

  Leisel fleetingly wondered how she would manage to check in every night, smack-bang in the middle of The Returns, but she’d just have to talk to Mark.

  ‘Is that it?’ she asked Zac.

  ‘Sure. Have a good day, Leisel. Lots to do!’

  Yes. There was. Leisel went back to her desk. She could feel her emails shouting at her.

  Can Juicy Tubes have the cover mount? They’ll be two days past the deadline but PLEEEEEEASE?

  She sat down and gulped a mouthful of lukewarm tea. She knew exactly what tonight’s post would be. She also knew if Zac ever read it, he’d be horrified, but the unlikelihood of him ever reading a ‘mummy blog’ certainly worked in her favour. Leisel just needed to make it home to write it.

  To Every Woman Who Has To Leave Early.

  I hear you. I hear you making your excuses.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  Is it okay? I’ll make it up. I didn’t take a lunch break.

  Yes, of course I’ll log back on. Yes, of course I’ll do five days’ work in four. Yes. Of course, I understand my pay will reflect that I won’t always make it in for the 9 a.m. meeting.’ To every woman who has a boss who doesn’t understand that sometimes, sometimes, there are more important things in life than deadlines and reports.

  There are children with fevers, and schoolkids who need to learn to read. There are babies who need feeding and there are teenagers who are online chatting to… who knows who.

  To every woman who has ever felt bad for the people she’s leaving behind at work and the people she’s leaving behind at home.

  To every woman who didn’t get that promotion, wasn’t considered for that pay rise, wasn’t offered that new project… I know, you weren’t ‘front of mind’ because it’s been six months since you went for after-work drinks.

  To every woman whose boss is a man who has a wife at home and has no idea what ‘she does all day’.

  To every woman whose boss is a woman who hasn’t had kids yet but knows when she does, she’ll magically do a much better job than you’re doing.

  To every woman who’s read every article on the internet about work–life balance and still can’t find time to empty the school bag:

  There are some things we all have that they don’t, you know. Perspective. And each other.

  You can make me feel small at work, Boss. But at home, the only people who can make me feel small are much, much tinier than you and they need me more.

  Share this with someone who needs to be heard today. I did. And I’m lucky, because I have all of you to listen.

  L—The Working Mum x

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ELLE

  Tell me again how new mothers aren’t interested in having sex with their husbands.

  Elle had written this line under a photo of a still-dripping pregnancy test to announce she was expecting her second baby when her first was only four months old.

  That post was passed around by her then-modest following of about two thousand, before it was picked up by a parenting site that used it to hook a think-piece:

  WOMEN WHO ARE SAYING YES TO SEX AFTER BABY

  The commenters weren’t kind—sample line: SLUTS like you should be thinking about your babies, not your sex life—but the story was followed by a rash of posts about post-natal sex drive and the perfect age-gap between siblings, and by the time a staffer at the Daily Trail had raided Elle’s Instagram account, she was on her way to going viral.

  The Trail couldn’t have been more delighted by what they found—an opinionated young woman in various stages of undress—and The Stylish Mumma became a goldmine for them as Elle followed that post with a content series, ‘Pregnant In Heels’: a blow-by-blow account of the next eight months.

  It’s time to prove, once and for all, that the modern mumma does not do shapeless floral smocks and use Baby as an excuse for sensible shoes and letting her greys grow in. After all, when is there a more important time to present yourself with confidence and grace than when you’re about to guide a little human into the world? Start as you mean to go on. Who’s with me?

  Lots of people. Elle’s followers doubled, tripled and doubled again, as young women posted photo after photo to her blog. Always accompanying their selfies with modest captions about weight gain and ‘out of control boobs’, a slew of women showed their stomachs in swimwear—#bikinibumpshot—and pledged to stay ‘hot’ during pregnancy.

  ‘What the hell are you going to write about now?’ Elle’s sister Zoe asked after she’d finished live-blogging Freddie’s birth—the first ‘gentle caesarean’ to be reported by an Australian site, complete with a clear barrier sheet, vaginal swabbing and an Ed Sheeran playlist piped through the otherwise ordered-to-be-silent theatre.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Elle. ‘There’s always something.’

  And there was. The ‘body bounce-back’, obviously. That filled days and weeks and months with a training regime and ever-more flattering progress pictures. Endless Instagrams of salad bowls and breastmilk-encouraging protein shakes. Like, Like, Like.

  Now, Cate was telling Elle that The Stylish Mumma had been nominated for Best Parenting Blog of 2017 at the Blog-ahhs, as part of a major tech-publishing conference sponsored by Silicon Valley firm ATGT. It was the first time the Blog-ahhs had been held in Australia—and it was, Cate insisted with phone-waving enthusiasm, a very big deal. The winner would score major investment, both in a hefty cash prize and in introductions to venture capitalists who could help Elle develop her blog into a full-scale business.

  Cate also told her who the other two contenders were: Feral Abi (of course, and as if) and that whingeing working mum from Sydney, whom Elle had never met and never really read.

  Elle wasn’t worried. She could picture her name on that award. She could feel its weight in her hands. She was already counting the sponsorship money that would come pouring in as a result of this nomination—for starters, the Abbott’s Smoothies contract that was up for grabs. They were looking to invest heavily in an influencer, and she knew she was it.

  Last month, Elle had filled in the questionnaire from the Blog-ahh organisers:

  DESCRIBE YOUR BLOG IN ONE WORD:

  Inspirational.

  WHY DID YOU START BLOGGING?

  I see sharing as a gift. We are all going through the same things. We are all trying to make our lives that little bit better, more beautiful, more meaningful. I knew I had something to say to all those dedicated mums out there who are always trying to make themselves, their homes, their marriages, even their children, that little bit better. I am one of those women, and I knew I could help.

  WHO ARE YOUR READERS?

  They’re women who really care about doing a great job of motherhood. They show their love to their families by cooking beautiful meals and making them a wonderful home, and by taking pride in themselves, too. We don’t do baked beans on toas
t for dinner or school drop-off in our pyjamas at TSM!

  WHAT ARE YOUR MOST POPULAR POSTS?

  My work-out and kids’ fashion posts are going very well at the moment, and my stories about my beginnings have also really resonated with my readers. Even my life wasn’t always so great. It’s important to acknowledge that. I have worked very hard to live my best life.

  WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE TO ASPIRING BLOGGERS?

  Decide your aesthetic early. Don’t be shouty. Keep yourself nice!

  HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH TROLLS?

  Four words: jealousy is a curse.

  IF YOU WIN BLOGGER OF THE YEAR, WHAT’S YOUR BIG IDEA TO DEVELOP WITH ATGT?

  We are working on a calorie-counting app for mums on the go. You can snap a photo of whatever you are going to eat or feed your kids, and the app will calculate the nutritional value of whatever it is you are about to put in your mouth! It’s a complete game-changer.

  The nomination was validation, Elle was certain, that she was doing everything right. Hiring Cate had been the perfect choice, she knew, even if it had come at a cost. TSM was on its way to the next level.

  When the babies were small, Elle’s sister had been around to help with social media promotion, but after she had thrown Zoe out of her house, it was clear she was going to have to hire an actual professional to work with her.

  Until that day, Zoe had been the only member of her family Elle still spoke to at all.

  • • •

  Elle had called Zoe down from the country when she was pregnant with Freddie. At the time, Elle and her growing family were living in a Hampton townhouse while their Brighton glass box was finished. Elle invited Zoe to live with them.

  ‘Like, serious?’ asked Zoe, who had never been invited into Elle’s new life before. ‘You’re going to pay for the flight?’

  ‘Yesssss. Please, darling, I need you to help me. I promised Adrian this would be perfect, and it’s not… perfect. Not yet.’

  For Elle, kids had always seemed like something that needed to be ticked off a list—like eating your vegetables. You didn’t want to be one of those women who didn’t do it. You didn’t want to be all alone when you were old. There were only two types of grown-up women: mothers and the pitied. And Elle did not do pity.

  What she had done was give up working at the gym, encourage Adrian to sell the family home to buy the glass box, and stop taking her Pill.

  When Elle told Adrian she was expecting their first child, he had only been out of a house ruled by children for less than a year. As she held up that dripping pee-stick, Adrian’s eyes almost gave away his shock. Almost. Not quite.

  Elle watched his smile struggle to reach his eyes—his status as a midlife cliché must have dawned on him then, if it hadn’t already. He was swapping one tightly controlled life for another. One wife for another. One family for another. Expanding his set of responsibilities, rather than freeing himself from them, as it must have felt that evening in the shower at the gym.

  ‘I’ll be buying a fucking sports car next,’ he mumbled in a weak moment, four Scotches into a solo Friday-night session.

  ‘You already have one of those,’ Elle muttered, before assuring him that everything, everything would be different this time—their children would not run their lives, they wouldn’t fuck up her figure, they wouldn’t sit above him on her pecking order. ‘Just keep telling yourself: Elle’s not Abi. Elle’s not Abi.’

  But as the months crept on, it was exhausting, even for Elle, to maintain this part of the bargain. Discipline is one thing: resistance to biology turned out to be quite another.

  She banned Adrian from Teddy’s birth, insisting she didn’t want him to see her ‘like that’. Then she blogged about this decision, of course.

  The last thing I want my husband to see me as is needy, sweaty and out-of-control. He doesn’t need to bear witness to me howling or swearing or looking like a bedraggled mess. There’s a REASON why men used to wait in the corridor with cigars, ladies. It was to keep them from the trauma of seeing the person they love most in the world at their most vulnerable… and yes, unattractive. There’s no way A will be visiting me until bubba’s had the goop cleaned off him and I’ve had access to a comb and some lipgloss. #keepitclassy. She went through that labour without cheerleaders, other than ones who got paid.

  With the help of a baby nurse and a downloaded regimen, Elle settled Teddy into a routine at four weeks, and she never wavered from it. Never. The only way she could deal with the chaotic horror of pregnancy, birth and raising a baby was to impose order on it all. She was holding on for dear life. And, as always, she was succeeding.

  Elle was determined to show Adrian that she could handle everything: wrangling an active one-year-old (with a little hired help, of course), being the country’s most glamorous new mother, keeping their home beautiful, planning their new one, running her blog.

  Those parents she saw all around her, the ones whose lives were beholden to their kids’ every whimper? She knew the truth about them: they were weak, plagued with guilt and fear. The reason they couldn’t get their lives in order was that they were terrified of getting it wrong—all the time. She was not.

  She was getting it so right that she was pregnant again. And the news of the ‘Irish twins’ was a point of difference that could only help her blog, so she posted the pee-stick picture. After it went viral and she pledged to her growing social media ‘army’ that she would detail every step of this pregnancy, she realised she needed some more help. Someone she could trust. So… Zoe.

  ‘Like, serious?’

  Zoe was nineteen then. The youngest of Elle’s four siblings. Her only sister. Just a tiny baby when their mother had died in a car accident on a high-speed country highway, Zoe had never known a life that wasn’t Plan B. She had never known what it was like not to feel ripped off.

  After their mother was gone, the five siblings hadn’t grown closer. They’d retreated into their own survival modes.

  Elle’s oldest brother, Liam, had been MIA from an early age. Ten years old when he lost his mum, he had retreated, figuratively and literally—rarely around, always ‘out bush’. Their dad tried for a while to keep tabs on him, but it proved too hard, too soon. Elle’s few memories of Liam were of him appearing unannounced, wild-eyed and incoherent, on futile missions to scrounge for cash or something to sell. Those appearances stopped suddenly when Elle was fifteen. If she allowed herself to think about it, she imagined he was most likely in jail or dead, but she didn’t allow herself to think about it very much.

  Bobby and Kai were tougher. Solid little thugs in a small town. They’d run with the kids Elle imagined their mother would never have let them near, and by the time they were teens, they were mostly drunk, fighting and fucking. They visited dramatic scenes on the front yards of the family’s rental houses: weeping women with bruised arms, or tattooed men yelling about their cars. But ‘the boys’, as her dad called them, were tight—they had each other. They were still living in the town, as far as Elle knew, working on-and-off on surrounding properties, drinking in the same pubs they’d snuck into when they were fifteen, fighting with the same blokes. The thought of it made her itch.

  They surely didn’t know she was Facebook famous. They didn’t do social media.

  Zoe had got out. Sort of. She’d been working on properties since she was twelve and, like Elle, she possessed a discipline that had seen her hide that money hard and save up for a crappy car. At sixteen, she drove it out of town, stopped to pick up a hitcher—and promptly moved in with him and his parents. She’d made it a hundred k’s to the next town along, slightly bigger, slightly less full of people who hated her brothers. The hitcher was feckless, and Zoe took jobs in pubs and cafes, and presumably also worked hard at not getting pregnant, until she finally gathered the nerve to leave him.

  Elle thought of all this as Zoe’s Escape, Interrupted and was thankful that back when it was her turn, she had got the bus.

  • • •


  When Elle called, Zoe was deciding which fork in the road to take next. Literally. She had parked her battered Gemini at the highway turn-off and was sitting behind the steering wheel, chain-smoking, listening to the Dixie Chicks and wondering what would be worse—driving back to wherever Dad was, or starting again. Again.

  Then the phone rang.

  ‘You’ll love the city, you’ll love Teddy,’ her big sister said. ‘Adrian’s hardly ever around. And you can have your own room.’

  Of course, Zoe knew all about Elle’s world, because: Instagram. Zoe had been stalking her sister online for years. When Elle had told her that she was marrying an older man who worked in finance (no family invited, obviously), this had made complete sense to Zoe. Of course, that was exactly who Elle would be marrying.

  Elle—christened Ellen—was not a nurturing big sister, but she was an inspiration. She too had left their town at sixteen and never returned.

  Their father, by that time, was resigned to the fact that his elder daughter had never considered herself at home in that dusty, dying place. Zoe knew her dad could feel Elle’s judgement, her disdain at his decision—or rather, indecision—to stay put after he lost his wife. Elle had never understood why he didn’t pack up his broken family and move on, but Zoe knew he just didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t leave the place where his wife had lived, where he could still see her in every streetscape, catch a glimpse of her out of every car window. And anyway, where would he go?

  So when his first daughter told him she was leaving, he didn’t raise any objections, not that any would have been listened to. Elle bought a bus ticket with money she’d got from god-knew-where, looked up her mother’s cousin who’d moved to Melbourne in the ’90s, and took off. That was that.

  From where Zoe sat—ten years old in a crumbling fibro rental house with three erratic men—Elle’s move was brave, selfish and absolutely typical of her.